


A Little Malice

by Leni



Category: The Tudors
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Magic, Community: comment_fic, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-15
Updated: 2014-10-20
Packaged: 2018-02-21 08:03:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2460893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Leni/pseuds/Leni
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"He has denounced her as a witch, so a witch she will be. "</p><p>Or, The One With The Body Swap.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tigriswolf](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tigriswolf/gifts).



> Written for TigrisWolf at [Comment Fic](http://comment-fic.livejournal.com/564726.html?thread=79414006#t79414006). Prompt: **Character A and Character B bodyswitch for whatever reason and one of them knows how to change them back -- but chooses not to because this is their chance for a better life**.

He has denounced her as a witch, so a witch she will be. 

The ancient protections of the Tower are nothing against a queen's will (and Queen she is still, by the King's word, for he'd rather see her mounted head still crowned than officially discard her and let her free) and she appears at his apartments while he sleeps most heavily.

She loves him still. This careless devil, this powerful brute. She's shed her blood for him, three times on the childbirth bed, and she's tried harder to keep the male babes than any of her kind ever has before. But he doesn't know, and he doesn't care, and now he's tossing her to the side along with the daughter she's given him.

It's not to be borne.

Katherine was a saint, to suffer this pain without letting malice corrupt her heart.

But she is not Katherine. For her child, for her _life_ , she will play with revenge and laugh in the aftermath.

The chamber is silent as she steps into it. His pages, asleep on the floor, are sent away with a warning whisper into their sleeping minds. They're suddenly wary, eager to check the hallways for intruders, and they will miss her presence inside the room.

She is the queen, after all. Not an intruder. Doesn't a wife have leave to visit her husband's bed?

They go, and she remains, her only company his deep breaths.

How she loves him, this man who sleeps so soundly after calling for her executioner, this husband who already must have a wedding present for her replacement.

Yes, she loves him still.

If there was a spell to force his love, perhaps she would be tempted. But emotions are slippery in the hands of magic, and the heart will not be tamed by anyone's will.

It must be this, then. Revenge.

Gathering the ingredients is easy: his hair, his scent, a bit of his breath. She drives her hands through his clothing, forming the shape of him. She places her feet on top of his prints, marking the differences between her steps and his.

When she's ready, she walks on tiptoes to the edge of the bed and leans over him. Whispers his name. She bends and rouses him further with a kiss - their last.

His eyes open - widen - and his mouth forms a shout of surprise - of warning - of fear.

Nobody hears, of course.

The next morning, there are whispers that Anne Boleyn has lost her wits in her cell in the Tower, that she's crying about witchery and that, in view of her confession (for they must be a confession, these new ramblings of hers) the men she spelled have gone free. Her execution will no longer be a public affair, they say, for the woman cannot be trusted not to blaspheme against God and King and thus corrupt the minds and hearts of the good people.

George Boleyn pleads for his sister's life, once, that she is mad and must be sent back home in the spirit of Christian charity. He is dismissed with a warning to have more care for his head now that he's so narrowly saved it. (Months later, it will be whispered that the King has called for a private audience with Rochford, after which they manage to reconcile. New land grants may be well worth a wicked sister's life, many will say.)

May 19th arrives, and the executioner's sword fetches him his purse of gold.

The King arranges for his dead wife's funerals, to show the world that he is charitable after all, and calls for his youngest daughter to be brought back so they might distract each other from her mother's perfidies.

The other daughter is kept away yet, and warned that her royal father is growing impatient with her.

When asked when he will marry sweet Jane, the King shakes his head and pets little Elizabeth's head. "Not yet," he says.

No one would ever dare to question the King.

 

The End  
15/10/14


	2. The Witch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Because reviewers at Ff.net wondered what would happen if Anne switched bodies with Jane Seymour instead.

Henry is surprised - nay, _shocked_ \- at his beloved's request. "Visit... Anne?" His mouth turns into a sneer, but he doesn't allow his voice to harden. Not against this woman. Not with this sweetest of ladies. "Why would you do that, Mistress Seymour?"

He wants to call her _my love, my darling_ , but he must think of her virtue first. Soon enough he will have her to wife, and then he will be able to indulge himself with her.

Jane's gaze is fixed on the floor, and those who watch from several feet away - far enough to witness their chaste encounter and still hear nothing of their exchange - will whisper that the future queen knows her place, even if she knows little else. "I wish to pray with her, my lord. Show her that I mean no ill." She must sense the coming denial, because she sinks a little further into her pretty curtsey. "Please, Your Majesty," she says. Her words have dropped to a whisper, and Henry leans forward to hear her better, unable to avoid a glimpse of the smooth white skin that her corset can't hide from his eyes in this position.

Henry shakes his head. "Madam..."

"I have dreams," Jane hurries to say, daring to look him in the eye, her blue gaze so entreating that he must hear the rest. "Horrible dreams. Of blood and crying, of terrible things." Her voice doesn't break, and neither does her intent look upon the king. "Please, Your Majesty. If it is the queen who has done this...."

Henry's face darkens in understanding. "She's bewitched you as well!"

Jane dips her head.

"That-" He cuts off the insult, ever unwilling to sully her innocent ears. He wants to march up to the Tower and whip that witch until her blood runs free. He never should have allowed himself to be so lenient with her, to allow her the comforts of a lady when she's nothing but a- "I will take care of this, Jane," he promises, reaching out to caress her cheek.

She traps his hand between hers, shakes her head. There are gasps from the crowd, but her need appears to override her modesty. "You don't understand, my lord. I've seen... I've seen..." Her fingers press against the inside of his wrist, and she traces his flesh in what, in her innocence, she cannot tell is a welcome caress. "I dream of dead children, Your Highness. Their first cry never heard."

Henry staggers back into his throne. 

Anne knows his greatest desire. She _knows_ he would trade mountains of gold for the son she failed to give. And now she's had her revenge.

A curse.

Anne has cursed them all.

"She will die before sundown," he hisses, curling his fist in blind anger and shooting out of his seat, ready to order whichever executioner is closest at hand to do the deed. Forget the kindness of the sword. Anne doesn't deserve it!

Around them, the courtiers start whispering at the king's outburst.

Jane tugs on the hand she still holds. "Please, my lord. _Please_. Allow me-"

"No!"

He will not endanger his dear Jane. He would never be able to look at himself in the mirror if he hurt the woman he loves.

Jane opens her mouth for another plea, daring to contradict her king for the first time. She's too scared, Henry reasons to himself. But once Anne is gone, she will be herself again. He forces himself to calm down, to relax his face into a comforting expression. "Don't fret, Mistress Seymour," he tells her softly.

Her fingers play with his skin again, and he knows she's too nervous to notice his reaction. "Then... I will be punished as well?"

He rears back. "No!"

Jane lifts her gaze to his, all confusion. "But if those men are to die, just for being under her... influence... Shouldn't I?"

He bites on his tongue against another profanity. "It's not the same," he assures her.

"But it is," she says.

"You have done nothing!"

"Because I trust you above all others," and the way she says the word 'trust' makes it sound like so much more. "Whom would they have sought, in their despair? We all believed she was your good queen; we all were blind until you realized it was a lie. Who knows what visions they had? Who would they trust with them?" She gives a sigh, a shake of her head, the slightest tightening of her grip. "They are not lucky, as I am." Her thumb crosses against his pulse, digs in; Henry blinks and thinks of kissing her. "They do not have you to hold them in your...esteem," she tells him, seeking his gaze with hers.

He nods an instant before he remembers what she's asking of him. But then she's smiling, so relieved, and he cannot go back on his word. "Their cases shall be reviewed," he says, loud enough that the crowd around them - which has been growing in curiosity as well as in number - start whispering anew, laying bets and, a few, daring to take sides on Rochford's and Norris's chances (nobody cares much about the musician or the page, though later they will say they were sure they would be freed as well).

"Thank you, Your Highness," Jane says sweetly, leaning in as if for a kiss before she remembers herself.

Henry nods and saves that thought for later. He has a witch to kill, and his prize shall be this woman as his lawful wife.

"I'll see you tomorrow," he tells her.

_And we'll be free of Anne then,_ he doesn't say, still unwilling to talk of death - no matter how necessary - to his sweet darling.

"Yes, Your Majesty," Jane complies, stepping back to let him pass.

He goes to seek for Cromwell, to speed matters.

The people who remain in the room don't wonder why Jane is smiling. Everyone is well aware that she will be Queen before the month, if not the week, is past.

When they drag Anne Boleyn to the block, later that day, nobody listens to her cries. The witch will say anything to save herself; either that or she's gone mad. "She called herself Jane Seymour," the executioner will say over drinks that night, using the coin earned with his axe.

His friends will laugh and mock such a desperate attempt, and when the executioner's purse buys the next round, they'll raise their mugs and cry out, "To the mad witch!"

"To Anne Boleyn," says the woman that is known as Jane, now alone in her rooms, as she raises a glass of wine. She will be known as Good Queen Jane, the poor soul barren because of a witch's curse, the sweet lady that welcomed her husband's daughters, and even took to the witch's child as her own ( _What sweeter revenge?_ , she will whisper to Henry one night, after it's clear she will not increase, _She took my children, why shouldn't I take hers? And Elizabeth is so sweet, so smart!_ )

"To Anne Boleyn," she repeats tonight.

And she laughs.

 

The End  
20/10/14


End file.
